


Tywin Lannister, PM

by DK65



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DK65/pseuds/DK65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tywin Lannister has achieved his heart's desire--he is now the British Prime Minister. But he cannot prevent his family from behaving in a manner that causes him embarrasment...<br/>These characters belong to GRRM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Horrible Day...

Tywin emerged from a lengthy meeting with the cabinet—this idea of a coalition with the Lib Dems was absolute rubbish. He could not stand Nick Clegg—give him Ned Stark or Jon Arryn any day. He would have a word with that fool of a Cameron and his advisors. Perhaps—his mouth thinned—he’d have to give Cameron and Osborne (northmen both, godsdamn them!) a sharp lesson. He would think that through carefully—sharp lessons were his speciality. He might even ask Roose Bolton, who was a senior member of the Conservative Party, for his advice on this matter.

He walked into Number Ten to find his brother Kevan frowning as he clicked through the news stories on the Internet.

“What’s the matter, Kevan? Is there anything you need to bring to my attention?”

Kevan sighed deeply. “Tywin, my dear fellow, I would love to spare you this but...”

Tywin pulled up an office chair and sat down next to Kevan, so that he could peer into the screen of his laptop. “Bring me a coffee, black, no cream, no sugar,” he instructed the girl—her name was Nan.

She walked up to him a few minutes later, bringing him coffee in a fine bone china cup, just as Kevan finished downloading a video of Cersei chairing a UN meeting on women’s rights. He clicked open the clip.

She had finished her speech—the American Secretary of State Hilary Clinton was speaking. Tywin remembered meeting her a few months ago, to decide just what to do with Libya. She had been charming but firm—a tough customer. Cersei was watching her, a look of distaste on her face. She said, out of the corner of her mouth, to her aide, Falyse Stokeworth, “I don’t blame her husband for cheating on her—have you seen her wrinkles? Do you think anyone will vote for her as President, knowing that she stood by him despite the humiliation? She should meet Catelyn Tully—they could compare notes on their straying husbands.” He could hear it clearly on the clip—Cersei had not noticed that the mike was on. Mrs Clinton continued to speak, oblivious to the nasty comments his daughter had just made.

Tywin sighed deeply as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d tried to train Cersei—he really had tried—to not make such remarks in public. If she chose to get nasty, she should do it in the privacy of her own home, in the bosom of her family. At least they would understand. This clip would now go out all over the world—she could, he decided, forget about that safe seat in Parliament she’d wanted as a fortieth birthday present.

That evening, he was just getting to bed after another exhausting day (Europe was giving him problems—why, oh why, had Labour signed the European Declaration of Rights?) and thought he would enjoy watching some TV. A talk show or comedy would be good. He decided on the former, and selected a show that was just about to start.

Well, it appeared he was in for a treat—who should he see seated opposite the talk show host but his youngest and least favourite offspring, Tyrion? What was that boy doing in the US? Who had given him permission to leave the shores of England? He would have his passport impounded—and he would have a few words to say to the Home Office, for daring to issue a passport to Tyrion Lannister, without his father’s permission.

Tywin tried to calm down—he could not forget how anxious Pycelle had been about his blood pressure readings only a few days ago—as he watched the talk show host take Tyrion through his background—his education at Eton and Oxford; his research into the origins of man; his interest in dinosaurs; his fascination with mythical beasts, such as dragons and unicorns, concluding with a discussion of his sex life.

Evidently, Tyrion had been in the US, on a lecture tour. He’d been hard at it, travelling up and down the country, educating the unwashed masses. His tour had concluded in Las Vegas, where Tyrion, it appeared, had gone wild. He’d been at the tables and at the women; his lecture tour may not have made news while he was on it, but it did make news when he was caught having sex with a prostitute in a public place by the cops.

Tywin switched off his television, feeling furious. All that he’d done to restore respect and respectability to the Lannister name—and this stupid boy had to flush it down the privy like so much excrement. He shut off the lamp on the table at his bedside and tried to sleep. He tried not to think about his children or the country—instead, he counted sheep.

The next day, he woke up, not feeling rested at all. He did not know how many sheep he had counted till he finally slept. When he got to the breakfast table, he scanned the news pages, trying not to look at that picture of Cersei or the other one of Tyrion on the front pages. He turned to news of the war in Afghanistan—he hoped it was going well. He knew he would hear no end of it from Ned Stark—both his boys—Robb the trueborn heir and Jon the bastard—were at the front; Tywin had several nephews there too, as well as Jaime, who was in the news.

Apparently, several IEDs had exploded in the sector where Jaime’s unit was patrolling in Afghanistan. According to intelligence reports, these IEDs were set up by terror groups in Pakistan—so Jaime and his men were patrolling the border, to prevent infiltration. And Jaime was now facing a court of enquiry for shooting at people he assumed were terrorists, but who turned out to be wedding guests. He almost choked on his scrambled eggs when he read the news.

When he got to his office, things got worse. It appeared the girl (“Number Sixteen,” as Petyr Baelish referred to her) who had just given birth to yet another one of Robert’s children, refused to give the child up for adoption; she was crazy about Robert, and she wanted him to divorce his wife and live with her instead. She was threatening to go public with her story. Tywin wondered what Cersei would say if the tabloids did publish this. What if the Daily Mail were to find out that Robert had been straying even after he married Cersei? What if they found out he was the father of sixteen children born out of wedlock? What if they found out that his father-in-law disbursed obscene amounts of money to keep this quiet? He would have to pay this girl off, he thought grimly—perhaps he should send Robert to a family planning clinic, to learn how to make love, not babies.

As he was leaving for lunch, he got a call from Sandor Clegane. Evidently, Joffrey had lost his temper yet again, because the Lannisport Lions football team he supported, coached by Joanna’s idiot brother Stafford, had lost to the Winterfell Wolves, coached by one of Ned Stark’s boys—Bran or Rickon, it did not matter which. When he tried to beat up Sansa Stark, his one-time fiancée, to express his feelings of rage at the humiliation of this defeat, he was immediately arrested by the policewoman assigned to protect her, Sergeant Brienne Tarth. He was at a police station close to the LSE—Clegane was calling because the bail had been set for an obscenely high amount, and he, Tywin, would have to pay, as he always did.


	2. Genna Gives Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin confides in Genna, who gives advice...  
> These characters belong to GRRM.

Tywin decided he’d had enough grief from his children, his son-in-law and his grandson—it was time to tell them where they got off. He felt he needed to talk to someone about what he should do—how he missed Joanna! If only she had been there by his side! Well, there was no point grieving for all that he had lost when she breathed her last—he would have to talk to Genna instead. He refused to speak to Darlessa or Dorna—they did not understand the pressures he faced.

He called Genna, who was staying in Casterly Rock—he had refused to let her stay at the Twins, even after her marriage to that fool of a Frey, which his father had arranged in a moment of weakness. Although, come to think of it, he could not remember a time when Tytos had not been a weak man—especially after the death of Tywin’s mother. And to fall for that two-bit secretary, in her microscopic mini-skirts and blouses with plunging necklines; to give her all his mother’s jewellery and fine Paris gowns!

Luckily, Genna was only too glad to come to London—she needed to shop for presents, and nothing was available in Lannisport. She refused to use the Internet shopping portals, because she believed someone would hack into her account and clean it out. She had several complaints about Edmure Tully, Ned Stark’s idiot brother-in-law, who was involved with the Occupy movement and was frothing in the mouth about the closing down of libraries. Somehow, the thought of Edmure pleased him; at least both Stark and Arryn had an idiot relative who was just as troublesome as his own family. She agreed to meet him for lunch at Downing Street on Friday after a shopping spree in Oxford Street in the morning—she would spend the weekend in London with him and go home on Monday morning.

As soon as Genna walked in, with at least a hundred bags in each hand, she demanded, “Did Roose Bolton send you the Laphroaig? Because if he did, you can pour me a stiff one before you start telling me your problems. I do get the newspapers in Casterly, you know—and I know you want to talk to me about something serious; you have that look on your face.”

He should have reprimanded her—he was her elder brother, after all—ladies did not drink spirits at all, not even on Fridays, not at lunch. He could not recall either his mother or Joanna drinking the way Genna did—but then, neither of those dearly departed ladies was married to Emmott, that fool of a Frey.

He poured Genna a stiff one, and took a second for himself. They sat down to talk about her children and his; their troublesome nieces and nephews, such as Tyrek and his fling with Ermesande Hayford, who was still at school. “What’s wrong with the boy?” Tywin wondered. “Tygett had a problem with his temper—it seems his son will be arrested for pursuing schoolgirls.”

“He says he only helps her with her homework,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Of course, the girl’s a wealthy young orphan—both parents dead in a car accident when she was still a baby. I told him to wait till she was out of school; he does care for her a lot.”

For her or her money? Tywin wondered. He could not blame Tyrek—Tygett had never been a wealthy man, and his son, although a Lannister, did feel the lack of wealth in his life. And Ermesande was a lovely little thing, who was quite passionately devoted to Tyrek.

Finally, they got to talking about his children. Genna was blunt and brisk, like a surgeon or a general, “You can do nothing about Jaime; if you interfere in the enquiry, the press will get after you, the way they got after Maggie Thatcher because she tried to help her son. Cersei—she really has to learn to keep her mouth shut. Don’t send her abroad as your representative; keep her here at home and clip her wings. No safe seats for her at all unless she learns to behave in public. She shamed the country, not just herself or her family.”

“As for Robert—talk to Jon Arryn and Ned Stark; he loves and respects those two. Cersei’s always hated them and shunned them—you should not make her mistake.”

“How do you know she hates and shuns them?” he asked, surprised.

“From the way she talks about them. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven Robert for getting engaged to Ned’s sister, or for Jon and Ned and Robert for getting together a party revolt against Aerys Targaryen when his much-married son practically kidnapped her and lived with her for a year. Good thing they did too, or we would have been ruled by a mad megalomaniac, like Muammar Gaddafi or Saddam Hussein. And as for Rhaegar—I really don’t know what you and Cersei saw in that boy. The father was mad and the boy was madder than that. To think he could get away with kidnapping a girl in this day and age, even if his father was the PM! And just when Aerys was touting the virtues of family life in public too!”

“Talking of mad, what do I do about Joffrey? He seems to be obsessed with the Stark girl. Robert wanted the engagement; he was desperate for his son to marry Ned’s daughter, to seal their friendship. But then everyone noticed how rough he was with her; she’s a gentle girl, very well-behaved and well-bred. Tyrion raised hell—apparently, she was his student and he saw Joff slap her. The next thing you know, he filed a police case against Joff and got a restraining order. And then he hired someone Renly Baratheon recommended as her bodyguard—Police Sergeant Brienne Tarth.”

Genna was looking at him thoughtfully. “Didn’t the Starks or Robert complain about Tyrion’s interference?”

“No—Robert was furious with Joffrey and then Cersei was furious with him and Tyrion, for not taking the side of her precious son, their flesh and blood. She came raving to me, saying the Stark girl had bewitched them both.”

Genna swallowed her whisky and held out her tumbler for a refill. “Joffrey needs to see a psychiatrist—he needs to be sorted out. Robert stopped being fond of him after that incident with the cat. You remember—when he ripped open the belly of a pregnant cat to see the kittens. Robert hit him so hard he broke two of his baby teeth. And Cersei got angry because he hit her precious boy. Better get him to a shrink fast.”

“And what about Tyrion? What do I do so that he does not get caught with his pants down abroad?”

“Just how old is Tyrion?”

“Twenty-nine or thirty—old enough to know and behave better.”

“How old were you when you married, Tywin?”

“Twenty-one—I was just out of university.”

“Perhaps you should have let Tyrion marry that girl—what was her name again? Tysha? Stop scowling, Tywin—there’s no harm in a little honest yeoman stock being grafted on to the Lannister family tree. She really liked him.”

“Until I offered her and her family a lot of money to stop thinking about him.”

“Was that before or after you bought up all the debts on her father’s organic farm and demanded immediate payment? She gave her father the money, all of it, and then she went abroad—I don’t know where. I tried to find out, but...she eluded me. He loved that girl and he deserves to know the truth of what you did to break up his relationship.”

“She was a bloody shop assistant, Genna!”

“A lot of women work for their living, Tywin—Joanna and I worked with you, when you were starting out, remember?”

“That was different—it was an emergency. You don’t work for a living now.”

“No—more’s the pity. She was working to help her father—oh, I found out about it all from the servants. They needed the money to keep the farm going. They’re doing well now—but she left the country to go teach English somewhere.”

“Good—she’s the last person I want him to get involved with. I want him to marry a woman of birth and breeding, like his mother and his sister.”

Genna gave him an incredulous look. “Please don’t tell Tyrion to marry someone like Cersei—they hate each other like poison. I suppose you don’t know that, do you?”

“What do I do about him, Genna? I don’t want to go over the past—he’s caused us all a lot of embarrassment.”

“I think,” she said firmly, “he caused himself more embarrassment than he did you. Tell him to find a nice girl and get married. Give him your specifications for a perfect daughter-in-law—see what he has to say.”

They talked no more about the family after that—they spoke of pleasanter matters, such as the garden at Casterly Rock and how it was coming along; the Duchess of Cambridge’s pregnancy; the performance of the English cricket team in India—Tywin had always been against immigration, but he felt one had to recognize its benefits when Monty Panesar demolished the Indian batting order in match after match. After lunch, when Genna retired for a post-prandial snooze, he wrote himself a memo:

JAIME—hang out to dry

CERSEI—put on a leash—no foreign junkets, no safe seat

ROBERT—talk to Jon Arryn and Ned Stark—lunch at the Commons?

JOFFREY—find a discreet psychiatrist

TYRION—tell him to get married—woman of birth and breeding; no shop assistants or farmer’s daughters

He got back to work, feeling satisfied—it always did him good to have a chat with Genna, although he hated her comparing him with Tyrion. He knew better than to consort with women of dubious virtue; he’d learnt from his father’s example to avoid them like the plague.


	3. Tywin Takes Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then Tywin acts... not too wisely but all too well.  
> These characters belong to GRRM.

As soon as Genna left for Casterly Rock, Tywin got down to business. He had Lancel, Kevan’s son, contact Tyrion’s secretary, Penny, to find out when his son would return home and to fix a time for a heart-to-heart between them. In the meantime, he had Kevan check out Harley Street for a discreet psychiatrist for Joffrey. Then he got Gawen Westerling to contact Ned Stark’s and Jon Arryn’s offices, to arrange a lunch meeting at the House of Commons dining room. Since all three men were members of the House, no one would remark on their lunching together—it would just be assumed that they were hammering out a policy on the EU or something similar.

By the end of the day, all three issues had been sorted out to his satisfaction. Joffrey would see a Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a well-regarded American psychiatrist who had shifted his practice (no one knew why) to Britain, the coming Friday. Tyrion would come home on Tuesday evening—he would spend the night at Downing Street before he went up to his university town, which would give him, Tywin, enough time to lecture his son on the necessity of matrimony. Both Stark and Arryn were free for lunch Tuesday.

When Tywin sat down to lunch with Jon Arryn, a prominent member of the Lib Dems, and Ned Stark, a die-hard Labour man, both men must have assumed he wished to discuss politics, for they started off with a discussion of the Leveson report. However, Tywin soon cut this short.

“I’m sorry gentlemen,” he said firmly, “this has nothing to do with politics; it’s personal.”

Both Stark and Arryn looked at him, surprised.

“Personal? You will surely not harp on how you’d like me to send my little Robin to Casterly Rock, so that you can toughen him up? Lysa was livid when you said that; she didn’t speak to me for a week.” Arryn responded.

Bet that must have made you a happy man, Tywin thought to himself. Years ago—twenty or so at most—he had thought to wed Jaime, the apple of his eye, to Lysa Tully, Hoster’s younger girl. (Catelyn, the older one, was already engaged, to Ned Stark’s brother. And then the brother, Brandon, broke the engagement, to marry the daughter of a Newmarket stable owner and trainer. He was immediately disowned by his father, who left the business to Ned, who ended up marrying Catelyn. Brandon took over his father-in-law’s business, which he ran very well.) Jaime had, so he was told by Hoster, spent the evening listening to his brother Brynden’s war stories; he did not attempt to make conversation with Lysa, although he danced with her once or twice. Lysa ended up marrying Jon Arryn and gave him an extremely irritating young son, who was just a little less annoying than Joffrey. Jaime ended up marrying the army—Tywin was never gladder that the match with the Tully girl had not worked out every time he thought of being grandfather to the irritating Robin.

“No—this is not about Robin, but about Robert.” And Tywin talked to them briefly about Robert’s unceasing marital infidelities, and his equally determined attempt to cover them up.

“I think,” Ned Stark said, firmly, as he finished his dessert (it took Tywin the whole meal to give Stark and Arryn all the details of Robert’s many extramarital relationships), “that neither you nor Jon nor I should cover up for Robert. He’s been a skirt-chaser all his life. He was like this even when we were boys—both Jon and I hoped he would grow out of it as he grew older and got married, but our hopes have been belied. You should come out with this in the open—and let Cersei give him a divorce. If he’s been like this from the beginning, she should have ended the marriage sooner.”

“Cersei wanted to go into politics,” Tywin said firmly, “and she felt it was necessary to project the image of a stable home life...”

“I don’t think,” Arryn said, “that voters care that much if their candidate is married or divorced nowadays. Yes, it would have mattered some decades ago—but no longer in this day and age. Divorce is quite common. Moreover, in this case, it is Robert, not Cersei, who has behaved badly. Ned is right—I think it’s about time Robert endured the opprobrium of a divorce. Let all these women come forward and give evidence, and let Cersei divorce him for marital infidelity. Both Ned and I hoped he’d grow out of his youthful overindulgence in the charms of the fairer sex—I cut him more slack than I should have because of the ghastly manner in which Ambassador Baratheon, his father, died. However, it’s time Robert acted like a man and took some responsibility for his behaviour.”

“But...,” Tywin protested.

“No more buts, Tywin,” Stark said sternly. “Talk to Petyr Baelish—tell him to let the women tell all and let Robert face the consequences.”

Tywin could do little other than gulp down his objections—the thought of the divorce, of the agony that Cersei would have to go through, the questions the gutter press would raise about his family—all of that made him feel ill. He felt he had no choice—he’d had all he could take of Robert’s irresponsibility; he did not know how Cersei had put up with it for so long. He hadn’t fancied another woman after Joanna died; his brothers, with the exception of Gerion, who had dropped off the face of the earth somewhere in the Himalayas while he was finding himself, had all been strait-laced. He could not imagine fooling around or being thoughtless enough to leave young girls pregnant after spending a few nights with them, as Robert had done.

He returned to No. 10 and spoke to Kevan about his meeting with Arryn and Stark. Kevan agreed with them both. “Cersei should get a divorce—Arryn is right; it will not alienate voters. Moreover, she’s getting rid of a husband who has been repeatedly unfaithful to her—this will appeal to the young female voter. I think,” he said suddenly, “both Arryn and Stark are angry with Robert—he was the one promoting Joffrey’s engagement to Sansa. They would not mind seeing him embarrassed—although I doubt anything could embarrass Robert.”

Tywin gave the necessary instructions to Petyr Baelish, who said he’d speak to all the women and get them to tell their stories to the tabloids—the broadsheets would most likely carry the story, but on an inner page. He’d get the tabloid editors onside and then talk to the women. There would be enough mud flung on Robert—enough for Cersei to file for divorce and look like a long-suffering, loving woman who had done her best to reform a degenerate rake.

Tyrion had arrived by the time he finished talking to Baelish. He let his son sit in the waiting room awhile, letting him stew in anxiety (he hoped!) before he allowed him to enter his office, his sanctum sanctorum. Tyrion walked in nonchalantly, swinging a cane in his left hand. He sat down on a chair that dwarfed him and regarded Tywin calmly out of his mismatched eyes.

“Well, father,” he said, conversationally, “I was touched to hear you wanted to see me. What about, I wonder?”

“What about?” Tywin asked rhetorically. “Why, about that disgusting exhibition you participated in when you were in the US. Not your lecture tour—I have no objection to your lecturing—but getting caught with your pants down.”

Tyrion sighed, “Well, I hoped the cops in Vegas would be cooperative—but they seemed to take pride in hauling me up. If you saw what other people got up to in Vegas...”

“I am not interested in other people—those other people are not Lannisters. You are a Lannister. You will not besmirch the name of your family with your misdeeds. You will do what you can to bring honour to your family name—you will marry.”

“Marry!” exclaimed Tyrion, staring at his father as if he thought the older man had gone mad. “Whom do you suggest I should marry? Do you have someone in mind?”

“No,” snapped Tywin, “I have no one in mind. You will wed a well-educated, well-behaved girl of good family. She must be a lady—she must be able to act as befits a member of our family. She must not be the sort of woman you delight in disporting with—a showgirl or an exotic dancer or a waitress. I’m sure you can do better than that. I am warning you—you will find yourself a suitable girl for a wife or there will be consequences.”

“Such as?” Tyrion asked, his eyebrow raised enquiringly.

“Your passport will be confiscated—I might even have you confined to Casterly Rock. Your behaviour abroad reflects, not just upon your own family, but also upon your country. After all, you are my son...”

“Father,” said Tyrion wearily, heaving himself up from the chair, “I get the message. I’ll do what I can to locate a woman who wants to marry me. Why don’t you deliver the rest of this speech to Cersei—I’m sure she’d be all ears?” Saying this, he waddled out of the room.

That weekend, Tywin received a frantic call from a hysterical Cersei.

“Where is my son?” she howled, “What have you done to my poor Joffrey?”

Tywin had to move the receiver away from his ears—her voice was so loud he was afraid his eardrums would burst.

“Calm down, Cersei,” he entreated. “I’m sure Joffrey must be at his university halls of residence—have you called there?”

“Yes, I have,” she gasped between sobs. “They say—Clegane says that he went for a doctor’s appointment to Harley Street. Clegane drove him there and left him in the waiting room. When he arrived an hour later, he was told Joffrey had already left for Oxford by train. Clegane rushed back to Oxford—he searched for him everywhere, all his usual haunts—he even asked Sansa Stark about Joffrey—she hadn’t seen him. He filed a missing person’s report...”

Tywin sighed—he’d have to get in touch with the police commissioner at the Met to find out what had happened to his grandson. A nice story this would make for the tabloids. Thank the gods Slynt was no longer there—he got along better with the new man. He had one of his secretaries book a call to the Met and spoke to the police commissioner personally, who promised immediate action.

By the end of the day they had an answer of sorts—Dr. Lecter, the psychiatrist Joffrey was supposed to see, had left for Florence, Italy soon after his appointment with Joffrey. They found Joffrey’s dismembered body in the doctor’s rubbish bin—he had evidently been gagged, bound and had his innards torn out of his body. When they contacted Interpol, they learnt that the good doctor had left Italy for South America, apparently not to surface again. When Tywin asked the Americans to check the doctor’s antecedents, he learnt the man had done time for cannibalism in a maximum-security US asylum.

Of course, Cersei blamed him for everything—Joffrey’s death; Jaime being forced to face an enquiry conducted by the army; her marriage to and divorce from Robert—in short, everything that had gone wrong with her life. As far as one of his favourite children was concerned, he had been a terrible father to her. When she found out that it was Kevan who had selected Lecter as Joffrey’s psychiatrist, they were both in the doghouse. At the end of her hour-long tirade, they both had a sneaking sympathy for Robert Baratheon—no wonder the poor sap was chasing other women, despite being married to Cersei!


End file.
